


My Last Confession

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [20]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Come Kink, Established Relationship, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Porn with Feelings, Reconciliation Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, bdsm tones, mention of felching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Eames still has some misdeeds he needs to apologize for. Luckily, Arthur knows how he can make it up to him.Arthur shoulders on his newfound maturity and sits Eames down for a talk. He’s not an idiot, though. He waits until after dinner, when Eames is full and lazy on the couch, before ambushing him withfeelings.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Psycho Heroes [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/314909
Comments: 17
Kudos: 105





	My Last Confession

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a few days after the reconciliation in Promises (before Mason sends Arthur the rusty hedge clippers, not that it matters).

Arthur once thought loving Eames was like torture. He’s willing to concede, now, that maybe he was being a _little_ dramatic at the time.

There’s no denying that they’ve slung a lot of hurt back and forth. But, coming out the other side of reconciliation, he’s seeing everything they’ve put each other through as growing pains. Sucked in the moment, but ultimately worthwhile since it led them to this point.

Three days ago, Arthur decided to stop drowning in self-pity and dragged his ass to New York. To Eames.

Three wonderful days ago, Eames forgave Arthur’s bullshit and promised to keep loving him.

It wasn’t easy on either of them—left them raw and exposed, hearts spread open to make room for new needs, new hopes. And yet, overall? Arthur couldn’t be happier.

The connection between them surges with fresh intensity, the fever of young love melding with the smolder of lifelong commitment. They follow each other around the townhouse like puppies, rarely more than a few feet apart and moving like a unit through their daily activities. They don’t even leave the house, agreeing without speaking to shy away from the outside world.

Thank god everyone in New York delivers.

Arthur feels clingy and thin-skinned, seeking physical contact at every turn. Under normal circumstances, he might have been self-conscious about it, but considering how Eames refuses to let Arthur out of his sight for more than a few minutes, a little neediness won’t be the end of the world.

They’re healing. Licking their individual emotional wounds, yes, but also repairing the rift that was torn between them. Arthur is all too aware of the lingering ache that twinges beneath the surface. However, instead curling around the injury like an animal backed into a corner, he takes solace in their shared vulnerability.

The contradiction that Eames is both the source of his troubles and the balm to sooth them—it’s not something that Arthur is interested in questioning any longer. He’s done with running away from his own needs. So, if sharing his pain with Eames lightens the stone weight in his heart, then Arthur plans to hold tight and never let go.

He attaches himself to Eames’s side without second-guessing his welcome—shoves in close on the couch, wraps himself around Eames when the go to bed each night. In return, Eames hooks their legs together under the kitchen table and glances over every seven seconds to make sure Arthur is still there.

It’s all wonderful. But it’s also how Arthur knows something goes wrong.

So tuned in is Arthur to Eames’s every movement and expression that he immediately catches on when Eames starts acting shifty. Dropping eye contact. Bashful touches. Half-finished attempts at saying whatever is filling up his mind.

With their lives, the list of possible concerns is longer than Arthur likes to count. The damage to their relationship being the most obvious, of course. Or maybe the variety of factors that contributed to their recent separation. The Gibson job. Arthur’s insecurities. The horrible truths of Eames’s past—and that Declan asshole is lucky he’s already dead, but Arthur has plans for Bryce Emerson, Senior once he goes back to work.

It’s just as likely, of course, that Eames is preoccupied by all the horrible truths that Arthur _didn’t_ confide about his own past. Eames claims he’s fine with waiting. Maybe that’s even true. But Arthur is realizing he, himself, is not fine with it at all.

The one thing he’s wanted most in life has been someone to see everything he is and love him anyway. Eames could be that someone, but Arthur can’t truly relax until he tells Eames everything.

He’s tried, god knows. Even before that dumpster fire in North Ireland, Arthur has tried to confess his sins. Hell, Eames is probably the only person he could talk to about it all. He was there, was run through some of the same mazes. Eames is the only person in his life who saw what Arthur was and can understand what he’s been through. Not even Dave really knows what it was like. And Cobb… Arthur’s mind backtracks so fast from that line of thinking, it leaves him dizzy. No, Cobb is not an option.

There’s so much choked up inside of him, clawing to be said. But every time Arthur tries, the words won’t come. It’s not fair, no matter what Eames says, and Arthur counts his blessings that Eames is willing to overlook that for the sake of love. It’s more than he deserves, but fuck if he’s going to let it—let Eames—go.

He tried that, already. It was awful. Never again.

 _Do it right, this time,_ he tells himself. _Don’t be a fuck up._

Arthur shoulders on his newfound maturity and sits Eames down for a talk. He’s not an idiot, though. He waits until after dinner, when Eames is full and lazy on the couch, before ambushing him with _feelings_.

“Something is going on with you,” is what he opens with, and he’s such a fucking idiot because Eames sighs and leans forward, elbows on his knees. It’s the opposite of a flinch, but it’s just as horrible because the position makes it too easy for Eames to look down between his feet instead of looking Arthur in the eye.

Arthur knows that move. Arthur and that move are old friends.

“Darling…”

Arthur waits, but nothing further comes. Instead, Eames fidgets with his watch. Chews on his lips. And says nothing. He doesn’t deny there’s a problem, either. Arthur feels his spine tightening with anxiety, so he takes a breath. He can’t jump to conclusions again. Part of communicating, he’s finally learning, is listening to Eames instead of the paranoid screaming in his head.

“I’m sorry,” he backtracks, causing Eames to look up in surprise. “That came out shitty. I don’t mean to sound like I’m accusing you of anything. I only—” He takes another breath and pulls his head out of his ass. “You seem like something is bothering you. Something new, or, or more, I mean. From, you know, everything that we already…” The well of _responsible communication_ is already running dry, so thank god Eames turns towards him, looking ready to talk.

“There is something,” Eames admits. “Might not be as big as I’m making it to be, but it bothers me, you not knowing.”

“Okay. Whatever it is, I’m listening.”

Eames rubs his hand across his mouth. Arthur has always found the gesture unfairly attractive, so he’s already watching closely when he notices… Eames is… is he… Eames is blushing?

“While we were apart,” Eames starts, using the very careful phrasing they’ve adopted to denote the last few months, “I found the PASIV you keep here. And I might have done some dreaming.”

That shocks Arthur a little. “You took a job?” All of his protective impulses flare at the thought of Eames dreaming with an unknown team, without Arthur at his side.

Thankfully, Eames shakes his head. “No, no. The thought never occurred to me, to be honest. And I wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind for work, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. So, you were dreaming on your own, then?”

“That’s right. Just some recreational stuff, for the most part.”

Arthur nods. Recreational dreaming doesn’t hold any appeal to him, given his history, but he doesn’t begrudge those who turn to it. So long as Eames doesn’t get addicted, Arthur has no problem with Eames going under, and he says as much.

“No, I know. It’s not the dreaming, rather the dream that I feel the need to confess.”

“Eames, I’ve seen you giving a priest a hand job in an alley behind a pet store. And that wasn’t even a dream.”

“Wait, you saw that?”

“You wanted me to see it,” Arthur says and raises his brows, challenging Eames to deny it. He doesn’t. “Point being, I’m familiar with your brand of weird and depraved. So just tell me what you need to tell me.”

“Fine. Fine. There were projections. Of you. More than one. Not at the same time, I mean. Or, actually, memory is sort of hazy, so there might have been.”

“So, you had dream-sex with your projections.”

“It wasn’t always about sex, but, yes.”

“I don’t… You thought I’d be upset because you had dream-sex with a projection?” Arthur can’t help but feel a little insulted that, given everything they’ve worked through, _this_ is what Eames thinks he’s going to take exception to.

“Meaning you’re not?”

Arthur considers before answering. “Well, in general, then maybe. I’d have to think about that some more. But, I mean, it was a projection of me, right? So, even if I considered dream-sex cheating, that wouldn’t really count.”

Rather than look reassured, as Arthur was intending, Eames sags in upon himself. “That’s the thing, though.”

“Eames, help me understand, here.”

“The projections… they were always you, but not _you_ you.”

“Well, that clears things up,” Arthur can’t help but snark.

Eames makes a harassed noise in the back of his throat. “I’m getting to that.”

Arthur holds his hands up and shuts his mouth. It takes effort. All this caution and sensitive phrasing isn’t how they talk to each other. As much as he wants them to be open with one another, they won’t get far if they aren’t real.

“Like I said, details are kind of hazy now. And it’s not like I was always as sober as could be. Do _not_ ,” Eames threatens, pointing his finger in Arthur’s face, “lecture me again about dreaming whilst intoxicated. This isn’t the time.” He watches with a narrow-eyed glare until he’s convinced that Arthur has no intention of waging that battle. Not now, in any case. “Anyway, the projections I made, I sort of… fiddled with them. A bit.”

“Define fiddle.”

To his surprise, Eames squirms at that and looks away again. Arthur takes Eames’s hand in his and tugs until Eames turns towards him on the couch.

“I, I suppose you could say that I influenced the projections to suit me. Changed them so that they would behave in certain ways.”

Arthur can feel the frown creasing as he parses that. “As in, kinks?”

“No! Arthur.” Eames huffs and tries to pull his hand back, but Arthur holds tight. “I’m talking about their personality. Their identity, even. It was like—you, but you if you’d never gotten into the business, for example. Or if you were just… different,” Eames mutters, eyes dull and miserable. “Softer. Easier.”

“I see.” Arthur says dumbly, more than a little astonished. “You know that’s not normal, right?”

Eames blinks like he’d just been slapped. “I—”

 _Shit_. “Wait, wait, not what I meant.” Arthur turns completely to face Eames, sitting cross-legged on the couch with his knees brushing Eames’s leg. “I mean, most dreamers can’t manipulate projections like that.”

“Arthur, my heart, please focus.”

“Sorry.”

“We can nerd out over that as much as you desire later, I promise.”

“Right, right.” But, seriously, this man. Will Eames ever stop surprising him? How he manages to take the impossibilities of dreamshare and twist them into ever-more-stunning acts of genius. Arthur prides himself on being one of the world’s leading experts on dreamshare, and even he would never think of half the shit Eames pulls off as easily as tying his shoes.

Still, as Eames said, there will be time to go over that later. “You made different versions of me that lacked some of my negative traits. Because you were pissed at me. And you dream-fucked them. And now you feel guilty for wanting me to be different.”

All at once, Eames sags into the couch cushions. Equal parts shame and relief, if Arthur were to guess. “ _Yes_.”

Arthur takes a moment to organize his thoughts. This, he at least knows, is one of the times when he really does need to be cautious and get his words right. “I get why you’re upset about this. You feel like you betrayed me by trying to change me.”

“I _don’t_ want to change you, Arthur. I love you exactly as you are, I swear it.”

“Hey.” Arthur brings their joined hands up to his lips and presses a kiss to the backs of Eames’s fingers. “I know you love me. I have my hang-ups, but I realize now that’s always been about me, not you. You, I believe in. No question. Not anymore.”

Eames shakes his head. “I’ve never so much as looked at another man since we’ve been together. Never wanted to. Yet the second your back was turned—”

“No. Eames. Baby, we had a fight. A really bad, shit hitting the fan kind of fight. And then I ghosted you for months.” Arthur feels his own bout of shame wash through him, thinking about the cowardly shit he’s been. Maybe it would be easier if Eames really had been with someone else. It would certainly be no less than Arthur deserves. But this guilt—it’s not what Eames deserves. “It’s not your fault. I’m the one that left.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Not an excuse for sleeping with another man, no, but it’s an excellent excuse for getting pissed off and wishing your boyfriend wasn’t such an asshole.” That earns him a hint of a smile, but Eames shakes his head again.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but, well. It doesn’t sit right. Even though you say it doesn’t bother you. I can’t stop feeling like I did something wrong.”

“Do you need to hear me say that I forgive you? Because I do forgive you.”

“That helps, thank you.”

But Arthur can tell the words don’t help nearly as much either of them would like. “What do you need? Whatever you need from me, you can have it. I hope you know that.”

“I think,” Eames looks down at their hands. “I need some way to make it up to you,” he says at last, some of the tension easing from his face at the admission.

And that’s—okay, so Arthur doesn’t love that Eames still believes he’s done something wrong. But… if Eames needs to demonstrate his atonement…

“I can work with that.”

He only needs a few hours to decide what he wants from Eames, but Arthur takes the rest of the week to formulate his plan. There’s a key element his needs to order in, after all, paying extra for rush delivery. Besides, the days of waiting work in his favor. The anticipation… the growing pressure will only make things better.

Meanwhile, he tells Eames no sex. None. Then he doubles down by forbidding Eames from jerking off—although he lets Eames watch him get _himself_ off, to reinforce the message that Arthur isn’t mad at him, just scheming.

Eames makes a big production of grumbling, but the intrigue in his eyes gleams brighter with each day of his forced chastity. Eames is always fascinated by things he’s told he can’t have. Not the _having_ of them, but the _taking_. Whether it be money, secrets, or Arthur’s body—Eames is addicted to that rush of finding just the right path to get his hands on the prize. And so it’s not frustration that Arthur sees building up in Eames, it’s avarice. Yearning tempered by his trust that Arthur will make this good for them both.

Honestly, that easy faith has Arthur a little nervous. He knows Eames’s body well enough to play him until it hurts in the best ways. But will that be enough to give Eames the absolution he needs? Eames doesn’t often ask for anything from anyone, so Arthur is determined to get this right. He desperately wants to prove that he can be the man Eames deserves.

No matter what, he’ll find his own faith in what they can have together.

The view—Eames laid out naked on the edge of bed, legs over the side, knees spread, and a bottle of lube at his feet—tempts Arthur to forget about his plans and simply fuck Eames into the mattress. Any other time he would, but Eames needs this. Hell, maybe Arthur needs it too, if for different reasons.

“Please tell me there’s more on the agenda than just looking.” Eames looks up at him, propped on his elbows. His tone is all sass, but his nervousness is clear as glass for Arthur to see.

It’s one thing to ask for what you need, he knows, and another thing entirely to let yourself have it.

“Silence,” Arthur chides, rolling up his sleeves. He gently slaps Eames on the inside of one knee as he gets comfortable on the floor at Eames’s feet. “You’re supposed to obey me, not give me attitude.” The sharp response will do more to calm Eames than soft reassurances would. The less he gives Eames to overthink about, the better this will go for everyone.

With that in mind, Arthur wastes no time getting to the point. He slides his hands up Eames’s thighs, holding eye contact all the while and silently daring Eames to taunt him further. When the only response he gets is an impatient smirk, he bends down and takes the tip of Eames’s cock in his mouth.

After days of denial, it doesn’t take much to get Eames hard—a few laps of the tongue and a steady sucking pressure, and Eames quickly thickens between Arthur’s lips. And that’s good. That’s what Arthur wants, to shove Eames headlong into arousal before he can think twice about it.

Excited to discover how far he can push things, he grabs the lube and slicks up his palm. He strokes the growing length of Eames’s dick, plumping it up for Arthur’s mouth. At the same time, his other hand cradles Eames’s balls, his thumb sneaking just below to rub at that sensitive patch of skin. All the while Arthur sucks hard and steady, never letting the momentum drop for a second.

It helps that he’s learned everything there is to know about using Eames’s body like his own personal playground. Knows how to turn a current of desire into a torrent of need. So when Eames leans into his touch with small, writhing thrusts, Arthur sits up higher and adds a twisting motion with his wrist, jacking Eames at an unrelenting pace until Eames snaps his hips up. Groans against his clenched teeth. Flexes in Arthur’s hands as he comes hard and quick. Arthur catches the first few pulses in his mouth and swallows them down before he lets the rest shoot up between them.

He’s admiring the upgraded view when, panting, Eames’s says, “Don’t think I’m complaining, love, but I’m not seeing how this is supposed to be punishment.”

“Wait for it.” Arthur does, in fact, wait a beat. Long enough for Eames’s relaxing leg muscles to tense once again with anticipation. That’s when Arthur strikes. Leaning forward, he sucks that dick back into his mouth.

Eames hisses in surprise, far too sensitive after coming for this kind of attention. That doesn’t stop Arthur from tonguing the come-wet slit and the edge of foreskin, before he wraps his lips firmly around the head of Eames’s cock and sucks hard—then harder still, until Eames cries out and grabs Arthur’s hair with desperate hands.

Arthur pops off with a gasp. “Hands back on the bed,” he orders. Eames lets out a muffled whimper, but eventually he returns his hands to his sides and clenches down on the bedspread.

Satisfied by the show of cooperation, Arthur goes back to task. He takes Eames as far in as he can, until his lips brush his own lube-and-come-covered fingers wrapped around the base of Eames’s cock.

Eames hisses again, pulling his hips down into the mattress. Despite his squirming, though, he stays firm and full in Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur bobs his head, dragging Eames’s cock up and down the length of his tongue a few times before he has to catch his breath again. “Don’t fight it. Just let go.” He waits, his own body revved up and ready to pounce, until Eames forces himself to lie still. “There you go. That’s it.”

Watching Eames submit sends a thrill through Arthur’s blood. The rush of power and lust is made all the more intoxicating because Eames allows it. Arthur gets to have this because Eames wants to give it to him, and there’s no greater turn on than that.

Arthur reaches down and adjust his erection in his pants. He bites his lip at that quick touch. God, it would feel so good to take his dick out and relieve the pressure gathering in his belly. But he has a plan, and he’s barely gotten started.

_On that note…_

Arthur takes Eames into his mouth again. Eames twitches but otherwise holds still, every muscle in his body locked tight against the onslaught of stimulation. Arthur moves fast and hard, suckling at the head while his hand twists around the shaft. And as much as he tries to be good, soon Eames shakes as he hurtles into another quick orgasm.

This time, Arthur lets the come pool on his tongue, heart racing with his own excitement. Then he rises up, one knee braced on the bed, and leans over Eames’s shuddering torso to suck on a nipple with his mouth still full. Things get sloppy pretty damn quickly, and Arthur loves it. He runs his tongue through the mess before moving across to the other nipple and treats it with the same wet, forceful attention.

By the time he’s done playing, Eames lies passive and quivering. Arthur climbs off the bed and gets back down on his knees. Picking up the lube, he pushes between Eames’s legs and props one on his shoulder to give himself room to work.

At the first slick touch, Eames sucks in a breath, hole clenching down on the tip of Arthur’s finger.

“Arthur,” he hedges, “I don’t…”

Arthur presses in just a bit, and his mouth waters at the feel of Eames reflexively loosening for him. He turns his face into Eames’s knee with a kiss that’s more teeth than lips. “You’re going to give me what I want, aren’t you?”

Eames curses but eventually nods. His legs tense up, then go tenser still, before relaxing with obvious effort. It’s a lovely gesture, but Arthur wants more.

“Say it,” he insists. It’s not merely passive acceptance that he’s after. He needs Eames’s full surrender. The choice to capitulate to whatever Arthur demands of him is as much a part of this as anything.

Eames swears again and throws an arm over his face. “Fuck.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, Arthur. Yes, do it.”

More. He needs more. “This is for me. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll give me anything I want?”

“ _Yes_. Just, please.”

Spurred by the genuine _want_ in Eames’s voice, Arthur opens him up. One finger quickly becomes two, and he thrusts back and forth in that fast, demanding way that Eames craves whenever he’s taking something in his ass. Eames brings both hands back down to claw at the covers, as if that frantic hold were the only thing keeping him together.

Arthur looks him over with greedy eyes. Desperate, flushed, and most importantly _his_ —Eames is the most glorious sight he’s ever seen. The broken little whimpers escaping from his clenched teeth mingle with Arthur’s own ragged breaths as he watches Eames unravel. He shudders every time Arthur fucks his fingers in, huffs each time he pulls back. It’s a hypnotic pattern that drives Arthur to push deeper, faster.

Eames’s eager dick tries to get hard again but doesn’t make it past half-mast. Arthur rewards it with a soft little lick along one side, causing Eames to gasp and jerk his hips down. The ensuing wail tells Arthur that Eames managed to up the ante on himself, pressing onto Arthur’s fingers in just the right spot. Arthur seizes the advantage and zeroes in on Eames’s prostate, stroking until Eames cries out in overstimulation.

But not once does he tell Arthur to stop. He takes it all, even when tears slide down his temples into his sweat-dampened hair.

“That’s it,” Arthur urges. “Show me how sorry you are. Don’t hold anything back. Let me have you. The _real_ me.”

As if simply waiting for the command, Eames’s cock pulses and hardens further. Arthur leans down, mouth open, but pauses when he hears a whimper. He glances up and finds Eames staring back at him, wet eyes beseeching. Holding that gaze, Arthur deliberately laps at the cock tip. Eames slams his eyes shut, trembling all over.

“Look at me,” Arthur orders, easing his fingers from Eames’s ass. “Come on, look at me.” When Eames drags his eyes back open, Arthur slides the other hand up the inside of his thigh. “This is what I am. Demanding. Greedy. I’ll take everything you give me. I’ll always want more.” He bites at Eames’s hipbone. “Give me more, Eames. Give me _everything_.”

By now, Arthur knows Eames’s balls must be aching from coming twice in a short amount of time. He massages them, keeping his touch gentle, but it still causes Eames to whine. “I know. They’ve worked so hard for me. So good.” He rubs his cheek against the small globes and pulls one into his mouth, entertaining himself with the soft weight of it on his lips as he pats around the floor just under the bed.

All of Arthur’s best plans hinge on careful preparation. And the next part of his plan was tucked away, just out of sight, while Eames was out of the room. He brings it out, now—the slender vibrator that arrived in yesterday’s mail.

He eases the toy into Eames’s ass, slow and smooth, but doesn’t turn it on quite yet. He wants nothing to distract from the strangled moans spilling out of Eames’s mouth. Choked little hitches of sound as Arthur pushes the vibe in. Careful. Searching. He fucks Eames with it at a leisurely pace while he perfects his aim. Until he feels Eames’s thighs squeeze around him. Until he knows he’s in place.

He turns the vibrator on.

Eames yelps, his entire body snapping tight with the effort of not pulling away. He’s being so good, giving everything up, and Arthur loves him so fucking much he can’t breathe for it.

He moves the vibe in shallow thrusts—an unrelenting, grinding pressure timed to his own quickened pulse. Eames’s cries rise in pitch even as they lower in volume, reduced to voiceless mewls. Arthur can sense it building, a tidal wave rushing through Eames—from those widened, sightless eyes to the toes curling against his leg. It only takes a few more strokes, and then Eames is crashing, breaking, coming for a third time and begging in a strangled whisper for Arthur to stop.

“I can’t—I’m sorry, _please_. No more.”

Arthur pulls the vibrator out as carefully as he can. His hands are shaking. He fumbles with the power button before managing to turn the damn thing off and toss it aside. “I know. I know you are. Shh, it’s okay, you’ve been so good for me. It’s okay now.”

Arthur gets to his feet, feeling light-headed. He looks Eames over in fevered flashes. The white-knuckled grip Eames has on the bed, all the covers yanked into disarray. Heaving chest, flushed rosy all over. Slack mouth. Sweat beaded at his throat.

So damn beautiful. _And mine_ , Arthur thinks, undressing faster than he ever has before in his life.

Once naked, he crawls up onto the bed. He pivots around and straddles Eames’s chest. Holding himself up with one hand, he reaches back with the other to spread himself open. “You know what I want.”

To his credit, Eames rallies after just a moment’s pause. When Eames commits, he’s all in, and Arthur appreciates that truth to the marrow of his bones as he feels the swipe of a hot tongue against his hole.

Eames doesn’t bother with teasing, not that Arthur expects or even wants sophistication at this point. He moans his approval when Eames takes hold of his hips and eats his ass like he’s dying for it. It’s wet and rushed and perfect. Eames licks him hard, working the tip of his tongue inside Arthur and pushing deeper with every flick.

Arthur gives himself a moment to simply enjoy the feel of Eames’s mouth. He could never have enough of that slick caress, but he’s waited long enough to get his own. It’s a relief to finally grab his own erection and stroke with rough, hurried pumps. There’s just enough lube left on his hand to keep things on the sane side of painful, thank god, because Arthur isn’t slowing down for anything. Making Eames come so many times, taking him apart like that, has made him mindless with need.

He jerks himself hard, grinding his ass back against Eames’s face. The rasp of beard hair rubbing his tenderest skin raw only adds to the fire, cranking him up higher and higher. He’s so close. He can feel it in his balls, in his throat. Just a little more…

“Tomorrow—” Arthur adjusts his weight, his legs slippery with sweat where they’re spread around Eames’s rib. “Tomorrow I’m going to bend you over the dresser. Fuck your brains out. Come inside you. And then—fuck. Fuck. Then you… then you’re going to ride my face. Just like this.” Arthur has no trouble imaging it, layering the real sensations with the fantasy of Eames dripping onto his tongue. “Shit, yeah, just like this.” Arthur strokes himself faster. “Cream into my mouth. Lick you clean.” There. There it is. “Ah, god, _fuck_.”

The climax hits him like a cannonball, slams into his belly and punches the air right out of his lungs. His entire body coils inward, centered around the thrumming heat in his groin. His ears are ringing.

Arthur forces his shaking body to breathe, to remember to how draw air and hold it. Inhale. Wait. Let it out. Inhale. Again. The ringing fades, and Arthur realizes his eyes are closed. When he opens them, he sees his own face smirking at him. Eames’s new tattoo. Now streaked with come—his _and_ Eames’s—sweat, and possibly stray lube.

Arthur smirks back.

Fuck, yeah.

He gets off of Eames with more luck than grace and flops back against the headboard. Eames doesn’t move. Arthur stretches his leg and wiggles his toes against Eames’s fingers. “You okay?”

“Hmm,” is all Eames says, but he stirs enough to latch onto Arthur’s ankle with weak fingers.

Arthur leaves him be for now, content to lie there as their bodies cool. It gives him time to soak up a vision he’ll never grow tired off—Eames, naked and filthy, laid bare in more sense than one. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Eames shakes his head, eyes still closed. “Not.”

“No arguing. I’m still calling the shots, here.” He’s only somewhat joking, but Eames smiles.

“Okay.”

Arthur gives him another minute to recover before harassing Eames all the way up on the bed. Then Arthur drops on top of him in in a limp-limbed semblance of a cuddle, heedless of the mess smearing between their bodies. It’s his, after all. He made it, and he’ll keep Eames marked with it until he’s damn well ready to clean up.

Eames grimaces at him but enables the embrace by burrowing half under him, face smothered against the hollow of Arthur’s throat. And, just that easily, all that heat they’ve been stoking moves from Arthur’s belly to sit behind his breastbone. Much as he loves a good rim job, this might actually be his favorite part.

“How are you feeling?”

Eames just grunts until Arthur prods him with a finger in his side. “Meaning, do I feel like I’ve properly atoned for my indiscretions?”

“Your interpretation, not mine.”

“No, I know.” Eames hums. Arthur feels the vibration of it beneath him and smiles. “I feel good. Tired, sticky, and completely fucked out.” He slides a hand along Arthur’s arm and laces their fingers together. “I’m good. _We’re_ good.”

He says it like a revelation, and a heavy weight inside Arthur’s chest, the one he’s been ignoring for days, flitters away into nothing.

“Yeah,” he echoes. “We’re good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from the song “Heavy In Your Arms” by Florence + The Machine


End file.
